


Lost Kingdoms

by KingTyrell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, John Whump, Kidnapping, Not series 3 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingTyrell/pseuds/KingTyrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this kink meme prompt: John gets kidnapped. Its been a while (preferable nothing like 10 years and more like over a year or 9 months) and everyone- except maybe Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson - have given up hope. John eventually realizes no one is going to save him and saves himself. He escapes and finds his way back to Baker Street. Alone (I love my angst).</p>
<p>http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=123657199&</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I may come back and edit/revise this, but it's been sitting around for awhile and I should probably post it. Feel free to make suggestions!

Despite Mycroft's people moving noisily around him, Sherlock could not take his eyes off the door.  The last time he could remember feeling fear like this, he'd been standing on a rooftop saying goodbye to everything (and everyone) he'd grown to love.  The door is ominous [stainless steel, opened by a code that has not been typed in over six months but under a year containing the digits 4, 6, 9, 5, 1, & 7, but, of course, he already knew that] and marks the end of one thing or another.  The buzz and chatter of the agents around him makes it hard to concentrate.  He longs to lash out at them, to scream them silent, but he cannot, he should not, they have nothing at stake.  Behind this door lays the answer to a ten month long question he’s been too afraid to ask.  He needs this door to open; needs it like the air he breaths, like every answer to every puzzle, like the only thing in his life that ever truly mattered.  He needs this door to stay closed; needs it like the terror that’s been driving him, needs this moment frozen, needs Schrondinger’s cat to stay in its box.  The buzz becomes a murmur and he knows it’s time.  His pulse beats wildly, sweat forms on his face, and his breath quickens, but he steps forward and enters the code.  

 

The door opens slowly, loud and rusty from inactivity.

 

The lights flicker on one by one.

 

Sherlock steps forward.  He can’t breath.  

 

The agents trail in behind him fanning out to search.  He walks forward slowly, dreamlike, and as afraid of finding something as he is of finding nothing.  He knows, he’s calculated far too many times, the exact odds.

[Writing on the wall _his_ hand counting the days one by one.  So many days.]

[Scorch marks: controlled]

[Empty cans, empty boxes]

[A mattress with a worn blanket dragged from another room.]

Signs of life.  Signs of life.  Signs of life.  Faded, no one lives here now.   

 

It’s not a large facility.  Can’t be to have been hidden as well as it is.  It does not take long for six people to search the entire place.  It does not take long for them to find nothing.  

 

Nothing.

The word enrages him.  As the wooden chair hurtles across the room, he hears his own voice loud and anguished.  He reaches and grabs blindly only to release again moments later.  His screams and growls grow louder as he tears the room apart.  His vision has gone blurry, he only wants to tear, to break, to destroy.  

 

They find him hunched over on the floor eyes wide, faced scratched, hands bloody.  He’s shaking.

     

He never speaks of his actions that day, nor the tears that run silently and unacknowledged down his face, nor the cruel thing that finally, in a rustle of feathers, leaps into flight from its perch in his soul. 

 

_Gone._

 

_Gone._

 

_Gone._

 

_To return nevermore._

 

 

**Ten months prior**

 

 

**Text to John Watson from Sherlock Holmes: 4:35 PM**

Pick up sugar, milk, digestives, and a chicken liver on your way home.

 

**Text to John Watson from Sherlock Holmes: 4:42 PM**

Make sure the liver isn’t chopped.  Useless if chopped. 

 

**Text to John Watson from Sherlock Holmes: 5:23 PM**

A man’s alibi rests on that chicken liver, promptness is paramount.  

 

**Text to John Watson from Sherlock Holmes: 6:03 PM**

It is childish to ignore me John.  You did not mention plans for tonight, nor did you wear any of the shoes, shirts, or colognes you tend towards when you have a date with one of your insipid women, so I will assume you have an impromptu pub night.  Leaving me to fetch the liver myself.  

 

**Text to John Watson from Sherlock Holmes: 8:29 PM**

What time should I expect you home?  The liver experiment did not go as planned, and Mrs. Hudson refuses to lend me her mop.  

 

**Text to John Watson from Sherlock Holmes: 11:52 PM**

Your phone is with you, charged, and on.  I don’t see why you feel the inability to take all of the five minutes it takes you to slowly type in a one word response.  

 

**Text to John Watson from Sherlock Holmes: 1:24 AM**

If this is about the owl intestines hanging from the shower head, there really was no other place to put them.  I have since cleaned the shower as you (loudly) requested, so there really is no reason for this childishness.  

 

**Text to John Watson from Sherlock Holmes: 2:15 AM**

Neither Lestrade, nor Mike, nor Billy Murray report having any plans with you tonight, and you are never out this late on a weekday.  What are you doing John?

 

**Text to John Watson from Sherlock Holmes: 2:35 AM**

None of your other dull friends have seen you either.  If you are not home soon I will be forced to use your room to store the owl intestines.

 

**Text to John Watson from Sherlock Holmes: 3:01 AM**

It is imperative that you text me when you get this.  

 

**Missed call from  Sherlock Holmes 3:48 AM**

 

**Text to John Watson from Sherlock Holmes: 3:50 AM**

Your phone rang to voicemail, if you are in trouble call me.  

 

**Missed call from Sherlock Holmes 4:00 AM**

 

**Missed call from Sherlock Holmes 4:15 AM**

 

**Text to John Watson from Sherlock Holmes: 4:22 AM**

Unless I hear from you soon, I will assume the worst and act accordingly. 

 

**MIssed call from Sherlock Holmes 4:25 AM**

 

**Text to Unknown Number from Sherlock Holmes: 4:45 AM**

John is unresponsive.  Check CCTV footage around his work at 4:30 PM today. 

 

**Text to Sherlock Holmes from Unknown Number: 5:00 AM**

I will be sending a car to pick you up momentarily.  It is vital that you see this.  

 

 

*******

 

John blinked rapidly as his eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden brightness of the lights overhead after the bag that had been covering his face was ripped off.  His head throbbed from an earlier blow and he hoped that he did’t have a concussion.  Dried blood caused the side of his face to itch slightly, and he tongued at a tooth that certainly shouldn’t be loose at his age.  He knew he must look a reck, he could barely open his right eye for the swelling.  He was handcuffed and tied to a heavy wooden chair facing a camera, the little red light menacingly announced that it was indeed recording.  From where he was sitting there were no visible exits, and he could hear the sounds of two distinct sets of footsteps in the background.  Nether set came forward, so John could not identify a face, he suspected the camera couldn’t either.  A voice spoke, heavily muffled, John suspected a fabric mask, but without turning around to see (and risking the consequences) he could not be sure.  

“Here is your proof that we have Doctor Watson, Mycroft Holmes.  You have received our list of demands, the missile plans are the most important, and must be delivered immediately.  We will be generous and give you more time for the rifles and heavy artillery.”  

John was unsure whom these people were, but he was certain that men who blackmailed the British government through the medium of kidnapping certainly shouldn’t be armed much less given access to missile plans.  He gritted his teeth against the impending blow, stared into the camera and shook him head.  Not for him.  He wasn’t worth what men like this would do.  It was mere seconds before a boot came into harsh contact with his side sending him over sideways.  He let out a gasp at the sudden burst when he landed heavily on his arm.  The bag was wrestled back over his head and he was pitched into darkness once more.  

 

*******

 

Sherlock slammed the laptop shut.  He was breathing heavily and looked very pale.  There was a frantic twitch to his movements that made Mycroft uneasy. 

“Why would they go for John?” Sherlock hissed as he began pacing the room “I would have made a much better target.” 

Mycroft hid his agitation much better than his brother did, there was a certain calmness in his actions the belied how perturbed he was.  “It means they’re smart Sherlock.  They know, I know exactly what’s at stake, and they know how far you will go to protect Doctor Watson.  The believe that, combined with my already present desire to see him returned safely, you will be the extra push necessary for me to acquiesce to their desires.” 

“They’re right” Sherlock said sharply. 

“No” Mycroft replied solemnly “I’m afraid they’re not”.  

Sherlock stopped his pacing abruptly, and spun to stare at Mycroft, his eyes were wide with fury and disbelief.  “What the hell do you mean Mycroft?” he asked menacingly while he moved slowly towards his brother like a wild cat getting ready to pounce.  

“I’m sorry” Mycroft said, not making eye contact “even Doctor Watson seems to understand the Alpha Xi Liberation Front is not an organization that can ever have access to heavy weapons, there’s just too much at stake.” 

“You have to!” Sherlock surged forward and grabbed Mycroft by the lapels.  

“Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped “Even you must see that I cannot!  I care about John, and he doesn’t deserve this, and I will do everything I can to get him back, but there are more lives at stake here than just his.  Can’t you see Sherlock, John Watson is good man, but there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives at stake, and I cannot trade them for one no matter how much you care for him.” 

“They have John!” Sherlock shouted as if he could scream sense into his brother’s head. 

“I know” Mycroft said quietly. 

“They have John” Sherlock repeated futilely.  He shook his head slowly as he spoke, desperation showed clearly on his face. “I just got him back after three horrible years Mycroft, I can’t lose him again” His grip weakened, but Mycroft did not step back.  Instead he placed a gentle hand on his brother’s shoulder.  

“I’m sorry Sherlock,” he murmured “but you know that I can’t” 

“Please.” Sherlock whispered.  His shoulders hunched, he did not meet Mycroft eyes, but stared hopelessly at the ground. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, we’ll do what we can” Mycroft knew as he said it, that it wasn’t enough, would never be enough, but could not offer any more.  

 

*******

 

John awoke, once again, to pain.  His head pounded, his arm hurt, and the florescent lights above were far too bright.  The first emotion he felt was, oddly enough, relief.  John knew he shouldn’t be relieved, that’s ridiculous, he’d been kidnapped by a terrorist organisation demanding weapons for his return, but he never did react to situations like these in quite the right way.  He had wanted to laugh aloud when he had realized the video was for Mycroft, not Sherlock.  This was good for two reasons: Mycroft was level headed enough to not give into the demands of an organization such as this, and now John had not one but two Holmes brothers searching for him.  He’d be out of here in no time.  

He slowly, carefully, rolled out of the small uncomfortable bed wincing at the pain in his arm, it wasn’t broken, or it it was it was only a hairline fracture, but he would have to be careful so as not to make it worse.  He stood slowly, but had to sit again as sparks flew in front of his eyes and the world turned in sickening ways.  After several minutes he tried to stand again, the world still turned slightly, but he was able to manage to hobble over to the sink and toilet in the corner of the room.  He braced himself and looked in the small mirror overhanging the sink.  His vision was blurred making it difficult to see much, but it was not a pretty sight.  He probably need stitches for the gash in his forehead, and really he really wished he had something to put on the split lip or eyes nearly swollen shut, but he resigned himself that he would have to wait until he was found for any kind of medical attention.  There was the rough sound of the door opening behind him, he jerked violently in surprise and then winced as he turned around.  The door was only opened a crack and a plate of food was pushed in, then a water bottle rolled unceremoniously into the room, and the door slammed shut.  John chastised himself for not getting a better look outside the door when it open, and then limped over to collect the sandwich and crisps.  He had been surprised at first that it was just a thin wooden door that kept him from the hallway (he hadn’t bothered to test it knowing that there would be guards posted outside), but he had soon realised that this was not a prisoner’s room, rather, a worker’s room in which there were keeping him prisoner, and for that he felt, not grateful, but lucky.  After all, it could be worse.

 

 

“Sherlock, it’s been almost a week, you should sleep.”  Mycroft watched as his brother frenetically paced his office, he wondered privately if the pacing was the only thing that kept his brother from falling asleep where he stoop.  Sherlock turned his haggard exhausted face towards his brother, but did not stop pacing “I’m not resting until I get him back Mycroft.  I did not go through three years of hell to protect him only for you to fuck it up by letting these bastards take him.” 

“Don’t let the bastards get you down brother” Mycroft murmured and allowed himself a small chuckle at the reference he knew his brother would miss.  Sherlock stopped pacing abruptly and turned his weary, but still sharp gaze on his brother.

“This is not a laughing matter Mycroft, I know you think we have time to space, you made that obvious by the time you’ve spent sleeping in the last five days, but that’s twelve hours we’ll never get back, twelve hours those bastards are losing patience, we don’t have time for your indulgences Mycroft.” He swayed on his feet then put a hand on a table to support himself.  Sherlock hadn’t slept in three days and had barely eaten or had any water, he was trying to exist solely on nicotine and caffeine, but his body was protesting the mistreatment. 

“Sherlock” Mycroft said quietly, and got up from behind his desk to carefully lead his brother over to the sofa “we’ve agreed since we can’t give them what they want, we’ll take them down, so now you’re in my domain, my area of expertise, and I’m telling you that it will take some time, you need to rest you can’t help John by killing yourself this time, and everything it is possible to do right now is being done. You’re no good to John barely conscious, sleep” Mycroft helped Sherlock down on the couch and his brother was asleep before Mycroft had even covered him with a blanket.  

 

\---

 

Five steps then turn.  Five steps then turn.  Five steps then turn.  Five steps then turn.  The rightward lilt to his step no longer had anything to do with psychosomatic pain.  Two weeks.  It had been two weeks since he had last seen Baker st.  Admittedly, this was quite a bit longer than John had been expecting.  Kidnappings weren't necessarily common at 221B, but they weren't so uncommon that they could be considered rare.  John didn't think that being forcefully taken from your home could be something anyone could ever really get used to, but he felt he was as close as humanly possible to that point.  Two weeks was worrisome, however.  Kidnappings rarely lasted for more than 48 hours or maybe a day or two more if it was a particularly challenging case or Sherlock was the one kidnapped.  Two weeks was nearly unheard of.  John guessed that he should consider himself at least slightly fortunate, after all, they weren't really torturing him.  That being said, they had pulled him out of his tiny room, beaten him bloody, snapped several photos, then shoved him back in the room with no medical attention twice.

After the second time, it had taken him a day before he had been able to get out of the uncomfortable bed without keeling over, and another half day after that before the swelling had gone down to the point that he could open his eyes enough to see.  He was most worried about his arm which had been fractured the first time he was tied to the chair, but the beatings seem to have broken it nearly clean through which was not only excruciating, but would be a long, painful hassle to heal.  He had managed to make a makeshift sling out of a pillow case (and that he had a pillow case to begin with was a stroke of luck), but without a proper cast, it would start healing incorrectly and would have to be re-broken. 

 

There was a commotion outside John's door, and he stopped his pacing.  The sound of frantic voices echoed from the hallway, loud, but not clear enough so that John could understand what they were saying.  The sound grew to a panicked hum, and within minutes was an outright cacophony.  The occasional scream cut through the buzz of noise.  John slammed the palm of his good arm against the door.  

"Hey!" he shouted, knowing it was a bad idea "What's going on?".  No one responded to this nor any of his other attempts to get attention over the next several noisy hours.  Eventually he gave in and slumped against the door.  

An indeterminable amount of time passed.  

The lights flickered.  And again.  There was a click, and the lights shut off entirely.  The steady hum of florescence at once quieted.  Pitch darkness settled heavily over John's tiny room.  John held his breath for a moment until he was smothered by the nothingness.  He started banging frantically on the door, and screaming at the top of his lungs "Get me out of here!  Help!  Let me out!"  It wasn't long before his panicked cries were drowned out by the roar of an explosion.  The ground seemed to rumbled beneath him, but other than a slight ringing in his ears, John was unmarred by the distant boom.  After a few more minutes of frantic banging, he slid down the door gasping in air like a drowning man.  Even without sight, the pain caused light to spark in his eyes, and a minute later, he closed his eyes as he made the steady march into oblivion. 

 

He awoke slowly to the echoing sound of footsteps.  The panic set in immediately when he opened his eyes, and the dark began pressing in on him once more, but it was cut through by a surge of hope: he was getting out of here.  Sherlock had done it; he was saved.   The footsteps, however, did not stop by his door but kept going.  He banged twice on the door "Hey!" he shouted "I'm in here!".   When there was no response, he began to pound frantically on the door; the darkness was pushing at his eyes and he needed out of this room.  

“Help!” John yelled at the fading footsteps “I’m in here”.  The feet stopped and then slowly drew nearer. 

“Stand back!” came a gruff shout.  John moved backward, and after a few loud thumps, the door swung off it hinges.  John blinked rapidly, squinting at the dull light from the hall.  Taking in the lean frame and curly hair.  

“Sherlock?” He breathed. 

“Sure not locked anymore, mate” Came the reply.   

“What?” John’s eyes finally adjusted, and he felt unreasonably foolish in his mistake.  The man looked nothing like Sherlock, true he was thin, and had curly hair, but he was a good deal shorter than Sherlock, less muscled, his skin much darker, and his hair was auburn.  John squinted up at him “Sorry I thought you were a friend of mine” 

“It’d be kinda shit to find your friend down here wouldn’t it?” The man said lightly.

“No,” John replied evenly “it would mean I was getting out” 

“Oh, so you thought he was coming to your rescue, what was his name again?  Sherlock was it?  Poor sod” The stranger let out a short laugh.  “Nope you’ll have to make do with me, normal name, and no rescue skills.  Lieutenant Mark Hanson at your service.” He said with a half salute.  

John paused at the phonetic pronunciation of the rank before replying “Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, I’d say pleasure to meet you, but given the circumstances, it would probably be better if neither of us were here, so I’ll just settle on hello.” 

Mark seemed to startle slightly for a moment before saying “Oh god, you’re really military, sorry, mate I was just joking with you” 

John thought it was an odd joke to play, but he let it slide “So Mark, do you know of a way out of here?” 

  

***

 

The last report landed lightly on Sherlock’s temporary desk.  He looked up at Mycroft feeling exhausted but expectant.  He did not find what he was looking for on his brother’s face.  Mycroft did not have an expression of relief, or of closure, or of contentment, but instead his eyes held exhaustion, and the grim set of his mouth spoke of defeat. 

“No, that’s impossible” Sherlock whispered. “We’ve destroyed them, taken down all of their bases, arrested hundreds of terrorists, released dozens of prisoners, and you mean to tell me that there’s no trace of John Watson?”

“We’ve yet to find him.” Mycroft said, sounding far too resigned. 

“How?  How is that possible?” Sherlock demanded “We know they took him, they have not returned him, so he has to be there.  They only have three bases, so why haven’t your people found him?”

“I don’t-” Mycroft took a deep breath then continued “I don’t know Sherlock.  He’s not among the bodies either.  We’ve checked.  You’ll find that in the report.  I simply don’t know.”

“Okay fine!  What now?” 

“I - What?” 

“You heard me perfectly clearly.  What is our next step?” 

“Next - Sherlock?” 

“Yes Mycroft, he’s not there clearly, but he has to be somewhere.  We have to find him.” 

Mycroft just blinked owlishly at this.  Dumbfounded.  He would have something –– he would know something, tomorrow maybe.  God, he was tired.  So very tired.  He hadn’t slept in days.  

“I don’t–” he began slowly.  Where was his composure god-damnit?  He was expecting to be riding the high of a job well done, by this point, not this horrible crash of failure.  He shook himself, and found the vestiges of his self restraint. 

“We’ll regroup in the morning Sherlock.  Figure out what the best course of action is.  I don’t know what else to tell you.  We should have found him.  This should have worked.”

“Why didn’t it?”  Sherlock snapped.  Rage, adrenaline, and little else, kept him wide awake.  He paced the floor erratically. 

Mycroft scrubbed his hands over his face.  He dug his fingers through his disheveled hair and pulled in an effort to anchor himself through the fatigue.  

“I don’t know what else we can do Sherlock” He sighed. 

“What?” Sherlock stopped pacing, and spun to face his brother “You mean to tell me you’re just giving up?” 

“No, of course not.” Mycroft placated “I’ll lend my support in whatever ways I can, but this is no longer in my jurisdiction.  Now that the terrorist element has been removed, it’s a missing persons case.  Unfortunately, as much as I want to find John, and I promise you Sherlock I do, it would be a misuse of my department’s resources, and I simply can no longer spare the time for this case.  I’m sure Greg and Scotland Yard are better equipped to deal with this kind of thing.”

“So you are giving up.” Sherlock hissed. 

“I’ll help however I can Sherlock, but you must understand that there are limitations.” 

“You’re the British-fucking-government” Sherlock shouted “You have no limitations.  We have to find John!” 

Mycroft’s fatigue got the better of him, and instead of taking the proverbial higher ground he shouted back “Grow up Sherlock!  I’m not all powerful, and you know that!  There’s only so much I can do.  I’m sorry your friend is missing.  I hope, for your sake as well as his, that he is safe, but frankly I have other priorities.  I cannot simply drop everything because one man, however important he might be to you, is lost.” Mycroft turned to leave but a hand reached out and grabbed the back of his shirt.  The hand did not yank or tug, in fact, it was almost tentative.

“Please.” Sherlock was whispering again “Please Mycroft.  We have to find him.” 

Mycroft did not turn, but he felt all anger leave him. 

“Go to sleep Sherlock you’re exhausted, and in the morning you, Greg, and I, will discuss a new plan”   With a resigned sigh, Mycroft left the room, gently closing the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Stuck. 

Goddamnit, they were stuck.  John stared at the former exit in despair.  Actually, they were lucky to be alive; the whole facility had been rigged to blow, but the device had malfunctioned collapsing only a few of the walls but effectively removing any and all ways out, but a steel door with no power to enter a code they didn’t know.  John could only hope that Sherlock was on his way. The fact that the place was abandoned was a hopeful sign. It meant that Sherlock, probably with the help of Mycroft, had neutralised the human threat without giving in to their demands, and that was good. It hopefully also meant that he would soon arrive to rescue John and return him to his rightful place at Baker St.  John let himself get lost in the fantasy just for a moment: how Sherlock would swoop in dramatically with the coat he wore like a cape and say something offhand and vaguely accusatory as if John had done this just to inconvenience him, but John would see the worry behind it, so he wouldn't mind. Then they would return and get Chinese takeout (or if Sherlock was feeling guilty over John's kidnapping, he might cook something. Which could either be wonderful or awful depending on how complicated Sherlock tried to make the meal, or how experimental he was feeling).  John chuckled faintly at the remembrance of failed meals past. 

"You alright mate?"  asked Mark "I might be wrong, but exploded walls have never struck me as humorous" 

"No, no" John replied quickly "I'm just wondering if my friend is going to try another disastrous attempt at cooking when we're rescued."

"Some friend this Sherlock". It wasn't a question, but John replied anyway, 

"Yeah."

"You sure he's going to get us out of here?"

"Absolutely". John hadn't even the slightest doubt that Sherlock would find them, and soon. 

The rest of the facility was dark, but not half as bad as the smothering blackness of John’s cell.  The explosion had knocked the power circuit but cracked the high-ish ceiling leaving enough light to see by.  

 

A splash of colour from within the rubble caught John's eye.  He stepped forward cautiously.  

"John?"  Mark sounded concerned.  

There was something behind several of the fallen rocks. John reached out and pulled.  Suddenly the body of a dead man, head cracked open by a rock, fell forward knocking John backward.  Some not yet dried blood dripped onto John’s face as he hit the ground. 

Gun fire surrounded him him.  There was screaming and pain, so much pain.  He tried to roll over to spit the sand out of his mouth and to escape the pain that pulsed outward from his shoulder, consuming him like fire.  He could not move, could not turn he was stuck, trapped under the body of the man he had been trying to save.  Dead, John had failed.  John screamed out: desperate for somebody, anybody please help.  He tried to thrash, but that made the pain worse.  He could feel the blood trickling out: leaving his body. <i> _Please god let me live_ </i>

"John," a quiet voice cut through his panic.  "John, you're okay.  You’re safe from the war.  No one will hurt you here." The voice was steady, even, soft.  John felt the weight slowly being removed from his body.  "You have nothing to be afraid of." The voice continued quietly "You're not in Iraq anymore."  It was the inaccuracy rather than the tone that pulled him out of the flashback.

"Afghanistan" he gasped: still panting.  Mark was moving like he had spoken: smooth and slow.  He dragged the dead man as far away from John as the smallish space would allow.  

"I apologise.  50/50 chance of getting it right.  You back with me?" Mark kept the soothing tone just in case.  

After taking a moment to catch his breath John responded  "Yeah, thanks.   How did you know?" 

"What?  What to do?" Mark had finished moving the corpse and was slowly returning "My dad was an American 'Nam vet.  He used to get flashbacks from time to time.  You mentioned your rank earlier, so I just took a guess at where you might have been stationed given your age."

John let himself smile a little "You sounded a bit like him at the end there.  Not quite, but it's the kind of thing he does."

"Your friend, Sherlock?" 

"Yeah.  First thing he ever said to me was 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'  All he had to do was look at me.  With in seconds he knew everything about me." 

"You have such a look on your face when you talk about him.  You must really love him" 

"We're not together" 

"That's not what I said"

There was a long moment in which both men just stared at each other: sizing one another up.  John was the first to break the silence. 

"Come-on.  I know there's a kitchen in here somewhere.  Let's see if they've left any food." 

 

 

\----

 

Sherlock was fairly certain John would feel touched by all of the effort that was going into his recovery.  It seemed like everyone who had ever worked with the pair was throwing his or herself into the case.  Despite the fact that it wasn’t their division at all, Sherlock was aided by Lestrade, Sally, and even Anderson.  Molly would appear from the morgue, from time to time, to put her two cents in.  Dimmock helped to create a map the would hold possible locations.  It was all really quite sweet how hard everyone was working for the return of John Watson.  

“He’s a good bloke.” 

“I consider him a friend.” 

“He makes you less of a nightmare to work with.”

“He makes you better.”

 

It didn’t last.   

 

After a week of no leads, and nothing to show for their hard work, the volunteers from the homicide division had to return to their rightful jobs with murmured apologies about not really supposed to be here anyway, have our own jobs to do, but good luck mate, we really hope you find him.  It didn’t take too many fruitless days after that for missing persons to start diverting more energy to other cases.  By the time a month was up, with nothing, fucking nothing, John’s case was put on a back-burner and Sherlock was left to continue on alone. 

He would find him.  He would.  

 

 

 

They were lucky, John had thought.  Incredibly lucky given the circumstances.  The facility was small, but well stocked.  The explosion had knocked free some of the piping in one of the bathrooms, and it leaked a continuous stream of drinkable water.  There was food, a large pantry full of it.  They had been careless with the food, at first.  With rescue seemingly eminent, there was no point in preserving it.  Now, however, they were careful allowing only one can each per day.  Hunger's gnawing was now ever present. At one point, Mark had suggested a plan for the food so that they would not die of one deficiency or another, and John had sniped  

"Damn it man, I’m a doctor, not a nutritionist" and they both had laughed, but it was a hollow sound.  On the third day after the explosion, Mark had found a lighter and some petrol, and they had been slowly dismantling chairs and furniture to keep a small fire burning.  They spent a lot of time around the fire, not because it was cold, although, as the days crawled on, winter's cold hand was ever threatening.  The fire's main purpose was to relieve the smothering pressure of the oppressive darkness.

After a week of waiting, Mark had suggested they start digging.  John hated the idea: it felt like giving up.  Sherlock would find them, he would, he just needed a little more time.  Then Mark replied reasonably that “Well, when he does show up, then we won’t have to dig anymore, but until that point, it’s better than just sitting around and waiting like a war bride.  Besides, the day is long, and it will give us something to do.” 

It was a slow process, digging.  The walls were made of solid concrete, who knows how deep, and all they had were spoons and little bits of metal they found lying around.  Progress was made ever slower by the fact that Mark had never done physical labour in his life, and John only had one usable arm.  They made do: worked each day scratching away at the wall a bit at a time.  John talked of Sherlock while they worked, filling up the exhausted hours with stories.  He told everything, the good and the bad.  Sometimes, they would have to stop working because of the laughter.  Sometimes, a particularly somber story would leave them in silent reverie for hours.  The digging burned their muscles and covered their faces in sweat.  It left them tired, angry, and hungry.  Both men went to bed at night trying in vain not to hear the painful growling of his stomach. 

 

It was nearing the end of the second month when, while John was telling a story about finding a lamb’s head in his laundry basket, Mark first suggested

“John, this Sherlock of yours, I don’t think he’s coming.” 

It took John a moment, a long moment, to even comprehend the implications of that.

“What?” He hissed

“I’m just saying” Mark replied defensively “that, if he’s as good as you say he is, he should have found us by now.” 

“He’s not only good, he’s the best, and he will find us.  These things take time” John pressed his spoon into the (still too shallow) indent in the concrete.  He pressed his anger into his work, using the force of it to scrape away at crumbs. Mark did not reply, and the rest of evening was spent in stony silence. 

 

***

 

Things escalated as is there wont.  

 

***

 

“He’s not coming, John.”

“He, is.  Stop saying that.”

“He’s not, it’s been three months.  There’s no reason he wouldn’t have found us by now”

“How do you know that?  We don’t even know where we are?” 

“You keep insisting this man is some sort genius.  Some sort of hero.  I don’t even fucking know if he exists!” 

“Of course he exists.  What the hell are you say?” 

“John, you keep describing some kind of fucking mad scientist.  People like that don’t exist outside of children’s novels and tv shows.  I’m not going to spend my days pining away over some figment of your imagination that you’ve gone and fallen in love with.”

 

***

 

Mark is humming.  Why is he humming?  Over and over again.  That same annoying tune. Over.  And over.  And over again.  Stop.  Stop.  STOP.  It’s clawing its way into John’s brain.   Pulling apart his synapses.  Driving him mad.  Just stop fucking humming.  

“Just stop fucking humming!”  

Mark stare at him for a moment.  Oh, that was out loud.  But there’s silence.  Blissful, crushing silence.  Mark is still staring at him.  He starts humming again. 

Louder.  

 

***

 

The food is running out.  

 

***

 

They are running out of food. 

 

***

 

They catch a rat in a can.  Mark kills it with his bare hands.  John skins it.  There is fresh meat for dinner.  

 

***

 

“We could try to detonate the explosives that didn’t go off.” 

“No.” 

“Why the hell not?” 

“Because even if we can get them to work, they’ll take this whole place down, and we’ll die in the rubble.  Is that what you want?” 

“No, but maybe we can set off only some of them off.” 

“And maybe they’ll set off a chain reaction.  Once, again killing us.  I did not escape Afghanistan to be blown up in this hell hole.” 

  

***

 

Not long before the beginning of the fourth month, John had to stop digging.  He had managed to rub his one good had so raw that every touch was agony.  Just a few days.  A few days break.  What difference does it make.  Doesn’t seem like anyone’s coming anyway.  Mark, though, seemed to have a different idea. 

“Why the hell aren’t you digging?  You’ve been up for an hour, why aren’t you digging?” 

“My hand–”

“Oh, fuck your hand, do you want to get out of here or not?” 

“Of course I do” 

“Then keep digging” 

“I can’t.”

“Do you think my hands don’t hurt–”

“Yes, but you have two of them”

“Then dig with your other arm”  
“I can’t even move it.  What makes you think I can grip something?” 

“Then you have to grit through the pain like a man, and dig with the hand that’s got a boo-boo” 

“I’ve been gritting through the pain for days, Mark.  If I don’t let it rest, I’ll have permanent nerve damage and won’t be able to dig at all.” 

“Then what good are you?  What good are you if you can’t dig?  We’re running out of food, and now you’re just a drain on resources.  I’d be better off alone.” 

 

***

 

It could have stayed as something said in anger.  It could have, but it didn’t.  Now that the idea was out there: either would be better off alone.  There wasn’t enough food for the both of them.  

 

***

 

Mark started giving John these lingering glances that left John wary, and infuriated. 

 

***

 

Things were looking better, however, if better could ever be used to describe a situation like this.  They were getting close.  So damn close. There was a spot on the weakened wall where they were digging.  Just a crack, a tiny crack.  But at the right time of day, you could see sunlight through it.  They would do it.  They would get out of this alive.  That is, until the wall collapsed.  

 

Months of work gone overnight.  

 

 

\---

 

Sherlock lay supine on the sofa staring upward, not seeing the ceiling.  His hands were pressed together, palm to fingertip, and placed under his chin as he thought.  One would think that after these many months, John's absence would stop hurting the way it did.  The pain had changed, there was not question of that, but it had not receded or lessened it any way.  Now, instead of the sharp stab of something torn away, there was the dull constant throbbing of a wound that had never quite healed correctly, or at all really.  Sherlock wondered in passing if this is (<i> _is not was </i>_) what John's shoulder feels (<i> _feels not felt </i>_) like.  

There was a knock on the door.  Had Sherlock been listening, he would have been able to tell who it was from the footstep.  He had not been paying attention.  Not Mrs. Hudson it was past 8 o'clock and he could still smell the herbal soothers.  Lestrade then.  The knock again. 

"Unlocked" Sherlock called dismissively.  The door opened slowly, almost cautiously, and Lestrade stepped carefully into the room. 

"I texted you six times why didn't you respond?" Lestrade asked irritably.

For the first time since Lestrade had come in, Sherlock turned to look at him, however briefly, before turning his face back to the ceiling. 

"Phone's on the mantle" He said with a wave of his hand. 

"Want me to get it for you?" Lestrade said irritably

'That's John's job' Sherlock resolutely did not say.

 "No."

"Fine." Lestrade sighed "What is it going to take to get you to come take a look at this case?" 

"Busy" 

"I can see that your highness, but -- wait, you're not are you?"

"What?" 

"High?" 

This caught Sherlock's attention, and he sat up abruptly. 

"Check" he snapped, and yanked up the sleeves of his dressing grown proffering his bare arms to Lestade "Check me.  I'm clean.  Haven't touched a thing" 

Lestrade did check, and the only track marks he found were vestiges of the past: long scarred over.   

"So this is still about John" Lestrade said quietly.

"I will find him Lestrade!" Sherlock growled.  

"Sherlock, it's been four months the chances of finding him are slim the chances of finding him alive are even slimmer.  I think it might be time for you to accept that he's gone, and won't-" 

"No!" Sherlock, now on his feet, interrupted "I will not give up on him!" 

"It's been months-" 

"Lestrade" Sherlock said, lowering his voice until it was nearly a whisper.  "He saw the death, he had a body, but he still looked for three years.  I can't stop, can't give up until I have at least that.  I owe him that much." 

There was a fragility to that moment, and Lestrade feared that any wrong word, any wrong movement could shatter it.  It’d been a long while since he’d seen Sherlock look this before, visions of strung out young man refusing to be ignored, and there was a weight to that realisation that made him distinctly uncomfortable. 

"Anything new?" He asked hesitantly 

"Of course not" Sherlock replied angrily.  He fell back onto the couch.  Moment passed.  Lestrade hazarded another attempt to draw Sherlock out.

"Perhaps getting out will help you get a fresh look at things" 

Sherlock shot him an amused glare.  He pulled himself slowly off the couch.  

"15 minutes.  I'll follow behind you in a cab.  This doesn't mean I'm giving up, but you're right that I'm not getting anywhere with what I have, and whether I stay here or go elsewhere shouldn't make a difference" 

Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief. 

 

\--- 

 

They didn't hear the wall when it fell.  They didn't hear their months of labour crumbling away in the night as if they were nothing.  They had been sleeping in one of the interior rooms: huddled around the fire that they kept perpetually burning now that the weather had turned cold and harsh.  Perhaps they would call it winter if they could see the outside.  Even in the interior room, they probably would have heard had they been awake, but when they slept, they slept deeply: their all but broken bodies taking the one luxury that was in abundance when food and comfort were scarce.  

Mark was the one to discover it.  John, who had been slowly coming to consciousness, was startled to alertness by his outraged cry.  He rushed to the main chamber.  Mark was furiously pacing the chamber in a manner reminiscent of Sherlock when he was frustrated by a particularly stubborn case.  John pushed the thought from his mind.  This was nothing like Sherlock.  Sherlock wasn’t coming.  Instead of petulant frustration, this was violent wrath.  Mark look like he wanted to tear, to rend, to destroy as he strode back and forth in front of their crumbled salvation.  John felt the same way.   

 

They started digging again: in a different location.  This wasn’t the same.  Instead of the hope and inspiration that had fuelled them forward the first time, their progress was slowed by the defeat and monotony of forced repetition.  It didn’t feel like a way out anymore.  It felt like something to do to whittle away at the long, dark days.  It felt hopeless.     

 

14 cans of pears.  Yesterday they had 14 cans of pears.  John knows; he counted.  

13 cans of pears were sitting in the crate.  Perfectly ordered and untouched.  13 cans of pears.  He didn’t mention it to Mark, but he also didn’t miss the way that Mark was looking at him.  

 

Food kept disappearing.  They were on strict rations: the cans should not be disappearing this quickly.   John watched Mark more carefully now.  Mark watched him in return.  Try as he might, John could never catch Mark in the act of stealing extra food.  

“We are running out of food.” John said one day.  They had not spoken to each other in the past three days. 

“Yes, we are.” Mark agreed. 

“We should cut back to preserve it.  It won’t last until we finish digging our way out of it.” John said.  

“No.” Mark replied.  “But we are only allowed one can each a day, what do you suggest that we do.” 

 

Not steal extras.  John didn’t say.  He kept digging in silence.  

 

\------

There was something building.  John could taste it in the air.  A heaviness that weighed on his every pore.  The tension of something to come.  There had been days like this in Afghanistan.  They had been the days before battles: before casualties.  He used to have nightmares about these days: this sensation.  He doesn't anymore.  He doesn't dream at all anymore.  

 

\---

 

 

John stared at Mark’s unconscious body.  It was difficult to see in the dark because his right eye was nearly swollen shut.  He lifted his arm to wipe away the blood dripping from his broken nose.  Slowly, so as not to further aggravate his formerly broken arm (it had never healed properly, and one of Mark’s fists had gone wide in an aim for his face and the arm had swollen up again), John reach to take the knife from Mark’s slack grasp.  He tossed it across the room where it hit a wall and it clattered to the floor.  His bones ached and creaked with new bruises that he didn't need.  The battle had come, but the tension wasn't gone.  John walked over to the wall and dislodged a large, loose rock.  The image of the man in the wall rose unbidden to his mind.  Tucked away behind the rocks; skull bashed in.  What if he was next.  He had almost been next.  He walked slowly towards his cellmate's prone form, the rock heavy in his hands.  It's life and death, he reasoned.  Him or me.  He wouldn't be able to sleep now, not with this upon them.  Not without fearing for his life.  There really wasn't enough food to support them both, and with Mark stealing extras daily, it wouldn't be long before they both died of starvation.  He couldn't live like this. He took a step forward.  Not with the paranoia: having to constantly look over his shoulder, constantly fear attack.  They were no longer in this together.  Mark was the enemy.  

He brought the rock down.

And again. 

And again.

And again. 

Until he was sure.


	3. Chapter 3

He had to dispose of the body. It would rot, it would fester, and soon it would begin to smell. Plus, if he was perfectly honest, food wasn’t abundant enough for him not to be… tempted.   
He poured a pint of petrol on the corpse. It felt like a waste, but he knew it was necessary. It didn't take much to set it alight. It burned brightly, more light than he had seen in awhile, he had to shield his eyes. A smell like burning pork filled the halls. It smelled like bacon. He missed bacon. Saliva filled his mouth until his tongue drowned in it. He used it to moisten his lips. He licked the blood off his hands. It tasted like iron. It made him feel sick. 

\--- 

“Thank you.” Sherlock said to Mrs. Hudson on a day six months after John’s disappearance. I was spoken so quietly it took a moment for Mrs. Hudson to realise that he’d even spoken at all.   
“For what dear?” She replied cautiously  
“For not suggesting I clear out his room.”   
Mrs. Hudson just looked at him sadly for awhile, and took her time before responding.   
"I understand you're still looking, and I think that's right. You were dead for three years and that boy never gave up on you. I may be old, but I can see how much you two love each other, and I know that you won't stop looking until you get an answer. It's been a long time, but John's a hearty lad, he might surprise you yet."   
"He always surprises me, Mrs. Hudson" Sherlock replied with a ghost of a smile he hadn't smiled since he had last seen his friend. 

\---

John leant against the wall consumed by the remorse he didn’t feel. He was alone now. It had been almost three days since Mark’s death (murder?). He hadn’t dug, hadn’t ate, hadn’t done much of anything. When he did start digging again, he did it at a lethargic rate. It was less a means of escape and more something to do. Something to fill the time. What was the point? He wasn’t going to escape. No one was coming for him. Fuck Sherlock and his cases and solving. What good was Sherlock if he couldn’t fucking find him. He hated Sherlock Holmes. Fuck Sherlock and his hair and his coat and self importance. Fuck Sherlock’s ability to come back from the dead. If he died down here, that would be the end. There would be no triumphant return for him. No his corpse would rot here: feasted on by the vermin and the bacteria. He would decompose and they would never find him. 

Not that anybody was looking. 

Damn Sherlock Holmes. Damn him to the hell he was living in. Had the worthless bastard even looked for him? He had given away years of his life to this fucker. For what? FOR WHAT? He had traded his life away. No job. No love life. Barely any other friends. He had killed for him. Offered to die for him. Would have died for him. Useless. Fucking useless! Sherlock had been a terrible flatmate too. Even if he did get out of here, he was never going back. Not to the odd hours, or to the screechy violin, or to the ligaments in the refrigerator. Not to the stale oder of tobacco or to be treated as a skull instead of a fucking person. Never again. Fuck Sherlock Holmes. 

God how he missed the Sherlock, and their adventures, and laughing at crime scenes.  
He was so alone. So very alone.   
He resolutely did not cry.   
Goddamn it. He wanted to go home. 

\----

Time. Time was a strange thing when you had no way to measure it and one to spend it with. He scratched out the days in tallies on the wall, but there was no way of determining hours or minutes. There was only night and day. He talked to himself to keep the silence at bay: talked aloud about nothing for hours on end. When he had nothing else to say, he would sing: pop songs, folk songs, old rock and roll, whatever he knew the lyrics to and some he didn’t. When he ran out of things to say to himself, he spoke to Sherlock. He talked with his imaginary friend about digging, and cases, and missed opportunities. He told Sherlock about his regrets, and the war, and his childhood: anything to pass the time. All the while, he dug: scraping at the wall until his hands were raw and bloody and then scraping some more. His progress was minimal, infinitesimally small. It took days for “progress” of any kind to be noticeable. He wondered why he dug, and then realised it was something to do. Better to digs than to spend the hours wasting away uselessly. Better to pretend that he could escape. Better to pretend that he wouldn’t die here.   
What a death it would be. His funeral would be attended by rats. Maybe the rat king would give a speech. “He lies John Watson, let us feast on his corpse”. He would be slowly consumed by the worms and the maggots, and what they didn’t want would rot away leaving only his bones. Maybe, with time, his bones would turn to dust and be indistinguishable from the ruin that was his home. Maybe, hundreds of years from now, someone would find this place and turn his bones over to anthropologist who would try to determine who he was and what they did. He liked that idea: stumping some future scientist who would ask “What was this man in this concrete prison?”. They wouldn’t be able to tell half the things about him with their technology and their machines that Sherlock had within seconds of meeting him. He would be a puzzle at last. That would show Sherlock. The idea made him laugh, and giggle, and chortle until his throat hurt and he was coughing up dust. It meant he had to stopping digging for a moment, he even reached up to cover his mouth like his mum had taught, this made him laugh harder. Who the hell cared about manners or the spread of germs? Except for the vermin, he was alone down here. He didn’t mind the pain of his bloody hands anymore. It was grounding. Sometimes he felt that without it he would just float away, and wouldn’t that be nice? But no, he had to keep digging. 

How very many months had passed. Time passes so slowly when your alone. The water ran out  Two days ago, the stream from the pipe in the bathroom slowed and then became a steady drip.  
Drip.  
Drip.   
Drip.   
Drip.  
He lay beneath it. Letting it drip on his face.   
_Drip. Drip. Drip._   
He should collect. After-all, this was the only water supply he had.  
 _Drip. Drip. Drip._   
If it ran out, he would be left without water completely.   
_Drip. Drip. Drip._   
Without water, he would die in a matter of days.   
_Drip. Drip. Drip._   
He should be digging.   
_Drip. Drip. Drip._   
How was he going to get out of here if he didn’t dig.   
_Drip. Drip. Drip._   
He did not move. He let the water drip on his face.   
_Drip. Drip. Drip._   
It splashed in his open eyes, on his lips, on his tongue.   
_Drip. Drip. Drip._   
In his nostrils, on his cheeks, clung to his eyelashes.   
_Drip. Drip. Drip._   
He blinked it away.  
 _Drip. Drip. Drip._   
It returned.   
_Drip. Drip. Drip._   
Chinese water torture. That’s what they called this.   
_Drip. Drip. Drip._   
Wear away the victim’s resistance. One drop at a time.  
 _Drip. Drip. Drip._   
Drive him mad.  
 _Drip. Drip. Drip._   
Was he mad?  
 _Drip. Drip. Drip._   
He didn’t think he was mad.   
_Drip. Drip. Drip._   
Let the madness come.  
 _Drip. Drip. Drip._   
He welcomed it.   
_Drip. Drip._ Nothing. 

 

No food. No water. Soon the fuel will run out, and he’ll be left in darkness.   
There are explosives in the walls.   
He has nothing left to lose.   
It took some fiddling, but he managed. 

Everything went white. 

\---

Mycroft’s people did find the remains of a corpse under some rubble and one for heart stopping moment, Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what he hoped for. John couldn’t be dead, no that would be… but then at least this would be over and he’d finally escape this wretched limbo. The thought brought on a powerful wave of nausea and he stumbled slightly before retching painfully. How could he… no, no, no, not knowing, existing without confirmation, he could never wish, he dry heaved again, and the effort made him feel feverish

They found a body. Oh god, they found a body. It could be John. What if it was John?  Then this horrible limbo would finally, finally be over. No. How could- why would- no.  That wouldn't be better. That could never be better. Even this torturous limbo was better than John being dead because then, at least, there was a chance that somehow, somewhere he was still alive.  Sherlock turned to the wall and dry heaved until it hurt.

The body wasn't John.  It didn't even look like John. The relief was overshadowed by the guilt over the thought that John's death would have been worth ending this. Nothing, nothing at all would be worth that.

Sherlock, dazed, confused, guilt-ridden, and relieved was guided to a car. They had found all they could here. Sherlock sat silently staring out the window as he was driven back home. He marvelled at what his life had become. How could he, he, of all people have let someone become so deeply ingrained within him. How was it that his happiness and well being now depended so heavily on another person. How much he had changed over a few short years.

It hit him, as it often did, that he was going home, alone, to an empty flat. That wasn’t exactly true though was it? He wasn’t going home. Home wasn’t London or 221b Baker street. No, home was the beating heart of John Watson, and for all intents and purposes, Sherlock was homeless.

\---

Baker Street seemed large, hollow, and empty when Sherlock stepped inside. 'It really is too bit a flat for one person' he thought idly. He shuffled, dreamlike, to the kitchen: robotically filled the kettle, and went to take a mug from a cabinet. It wasn't until he had filled it with water that he realised it was one of John's. It shattered when it hit the ground. As did the next of John's mugs. And the next. And the next. One after another until only Sherlock's mugs remained in the cabinet. John had owned plates as well. They joined the mugs in pieces on the floor. John's books were ripped from the bookshelf and hurled across the room. His coats were torn from the closet and, along with John's shoes, thrown one by one into the fireplace where they were doused in petrol and set alight. It didn't matter. John didn't need them anymore. John was dead. The knife was wrenched from the mantled and dragged through John's chair where it was left to rest. The kitchen and living room in shambles, Sherlock took the stairs three at a time to John's room. He grasped the handle of the door and flung it open for the first time in months. He stepped into the room, scanned it for where to begin and...  
Stopped.   
John's room. John's empty room. It was neat as it always had been during his life; only now, it was covered in a thick layer of dust. The calm neatness of the room cut through Sherlock's chaos leaving him flat. He collapsed in the doorframe: not crying, not again, but shaking all the same. Mrs. Hudson appeared behind him and slowly crouched until she was on his level; she ignored how it hurt her hip. One of her boys needed her; there were more important things than her bloody hip. Sherlock leaned into her embrace; he did not stop shaking as she ran a comforting hand through his hair.   
"He's not coming back, Mrs. Hudson" he all but cried into her neck. Her hand stopped its petting for a moment.   
"Did you find his body?" She asked worriedly. He shook his head and she sighed in relief.   
"Then you don't know that, dear. You've got to have faith that John's doing everything he can to find his way back to you."

\---

It was the little things that bothered him the most. That extra cup of tea that didn’t need to be made. The single towel hanging in what used to be ‘their bathroom’. The pacing footsteps no longer heard late at night. Little reminders of his presence. Little reminders that Sherlock wasn’t alone. Sometimes he forgot that John was missing, just for a second. He’d come home breathless and exhilarated from another solved case, run up the stairs and shout  
“John! I’ve done it again!”, and it wasn’t until the only response he heard was the echo of his own voice that he remembered. Sometimes, very rarely, he’d stand on the threshold of John’s bedroom, never entering, and he’d close his eyes and breath in, in long, deep breaths. The smell of John had long since faded, time will do that, but the room was otherwise untouched, and just for a brief (wonderful, painful) moment he could pretend. Just for a few moments, John is there: a questioning look in his eyes and a fond smile on his lips; he wants to ask what the bloody hell Sherlock thinks he’s doing standing in his doorway like some great bat at this ungodly hour, but he knows he won’t get the satisfaction of a response, so instead he laughs: a warm breathy chuckle that sounds to Sherlock like safety and happiness. But the moment ended and reality came crashing down around him, and he was left in a cacophony of silence. 

\---

Sherlock was wallowing; he knew he was wallowing. John was probably dead. Mourning him had stopped being appropriate several months ago. Grieving would not bring John back. Sherlock dragged himself off the sofa. It had been over two months since finding the abandoned facility. The search for John Watson had ended. He shuffled toward the bathroom. Sherlock just had to accept that he was alone now. This was his reality, and it was taking him far to long to come to grips with that. He splashed cold water on his face. It didn’t help. How had he managed to let John define so much of his life? It’s not that he regretted that. No, he could never regret the (all too short) time he had spent with John, but there was a good thirty years to his life before John, and goddamnit there would be life after as well. He saw John’s toothbrush sitting unused in its place and his resolve nearly broke. There was before. There will be after. He put on a suit and phoned Lestrade for a case. 

\----

About a week later, Mycroft stopped by unannounced and unwelcome. Sherlock found his brother sitting on the sofa, sipping a cup of tea that Mrs. Hudson had given him while he waited, and had completely lost his post case buzz.   
“Usually, brother, we wait to be asked in before entering someone else’s home.” Sherlock sniped, and brushed past to put his coat in the closet.   
“Diet going poorly, I see.”  
“Well, brother mine, were I to wait until you invited me in, I would remain outside indefinitely.” Mycroft ignored the second comment as well as Sherlock’s muttered “That was the point.” Mycroft sobered quickly.  
“I’ve come to apologise and to see how you were doing. I am… truly sorry we did not find him Sherlock. Please believe me when I say that you have my deepest regrets. Are you alright?”  
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock snapped.   
Mycroft sighed. “Yes, I see, alright. I’ll leave you to it then.” He set the cup on the table, and made to leave: pausing before the door “Sherlock” he hesitated as if somewhat apprehensive “if you need anything, find yourself… slipping… please do not hesitate to ask. There isn’t much I would begrudge you at the moment. You know how I worry about you.”   
Sherlock stared at his brother before quietly responding “Yes, Mycroft, I know. Thank you.”

Mycroft left the flat wondering if he should feel relieved or more worried than before. His brother’s unusual politeness could be indicative of anything from his grief over, what much certainly have been, the death of Dr. Watson, to warning signs that he may soon, indeed, relapse, to a mark of just how much John had changed his brother. It was with a heavy heart that Mycroft stepped into his car. John Watson had been a good man and not just in the miraculous things he had done for Sherlock. The man had be a hero in his own right regardless of how Sherlock deigned to believe in such things. The world had lost something rare in its goodness when it had lost Dr. Watson and was a slightly darker place for it. Mycroft spent the rest of his journey back to his office ruminating on the loss of a life. He was five minutes away when he got the call from Anthea. She was short, urgent, and to the point  
“Sir, I think you need to see this.” 

\---

_He_ didn’t so much awaken as claw his way back into painful consciousness. _His_ neck felt weak and loose, and _his_ head lolled forward. _His_ tongue felt heavy and swollen in his mouth. It took him several painful moments to realise that he was tied to a chair and a blindfold obscured his vision.   
“Fuck” he spat the curse at the floor. _He_ was so close. So damned close. _He_ could have gotten back; _he_ had been on the doorstep of 221 Baker street. Just another minute and this hell would have been over. But now. Now. It seemed _he_ would never return home. If they (whomever “they” were) had captured _him_ again, they would surely kill _him_ this time. The hope had been nice while it lasted. 

_He_ sat in silence for what could have been minutes, and might have been hours. Finally. Finally, there was the sound of two pairs of footsteps, one was the click, click, click of a pair of heels, the other, the quieter sound of men’s loafers. The footsteps stopped somewhere behind _him_ , but a tapping continued, the sound of metal on concrete. _He_ waited as the pause seemed to extend indefinitely.   
There was an echo of a man’s voice. It sounded faded and far away. It was hard to tell if the fuzziness was because of actual distance or just whatever _he_ had been drugged with. The voice seemed calm, too calm for the situation.   
The voice was directed towards _him_ now, but remained calm, almost conversational.   
"I wouldn't normally do this myself you must understand. No, I have people for this you should feel... I'd say lucky, but that simply wouldn't be true, honoured perhaps. You see, you've managed to make this personal. I've been looking for someone for a very long time now, and I hope you'll be able to help me find him."   
No it couldn’t be. _He_ must be hallucinating. That would be… No.   
When the man spoke again, his voice was filled with barely restrained anger.   
“You thought you could escape. You really thought that this would be a good idea? Of course we would find you. We had some of the best people in the world looking for you, and you’re such an imbecile that, without even changing out of uniform, you go straight to Sherlock Holmes. I can’t even imagine how you think you’re intelligent enough to wake up in the morning.”  
It all fit: the heels, the tapping, that unmistakable voice. A laugh. _He_ tried, but failed, to hold back a single, hysterical laugh. It hurt, but after the first laugh, _he_ had neither the ability nor the willpower to control _himself_ , and _he_ giggled manically until _his_ sides hurt (more) and tears rolled down _his_ face.   
“Stop it” the voice commanded sounding less composed than _he_ had ever heard Mycroft sound before. “Stop laughing now, there is nothing funny about this! What are you even laughing about!?”.   
After _he_ had finally, mostly, composed _himself_ , (which took much longer than was dignified, but _he_ couldn’t bring himself to care) _he_ wheezed breathlessly for a moment before attempting to speak. _His_ speech was painfully and slurred, but understandable, if only barely “We really ‘ave ta stub meeding like this Mycloft, I don need to worry abou‘ people talking abou’ me and you as well” _he_ giggled again at _his_ private joke.   
“What?” Mycroft spat. _He_ could tell Mycroft's patience was gone, good. _He_ needed a good cheering up, and there was nothing more fun than ticking off Mycroft Holmes. At least, that's what he seemed to remember.   
“Cumun” _He_ slurred, paused, blinked hazily, then, realising that didn’t sound like a real word, took a deep breath and tried again “Come-on, I know it’s been awhile, bu’ I figure we’ve been through enough, ‘specially with that brother of yours, tha’ you wouldn’ forge’ me this quickly.”   
“What the hell are you on about?” Mycroft snapped. _He_ hopped that Mycroft didn't like to get his hands dirty; being hit by that umbrella would hurt.   
“‘ow is Sherl’ck doing?” _he_ continued, enjoying _himself_ more than _he_ e knew he should “ ‘as he foun' a new fla’ma’e ye’?”   
“No, it can’t be” Mycroft breathed in wonder, and _he_ heard the footsteps slowly coming to the front of his chair. He squinted at the light as his blindfold was removed.   
“John” Mycroft said breathlessly; a look of wonder on his face. John lifted his head slowly and smiled painfully and crookedly.   
“Miss me?” 

 

•••

Sherlock was on fire. He hadn’t felt this good since, well, a while. The case had been a decapitation with the only viable suspect an elderly man whose Parkinson’s was so far along that there was no way he would have had the strength to slice through the neck of a struggling 36 year old. He had just debunked the wife’s alibi as her shoes were spotless and it had just rained so there was no way she could have been walking the dog in the park. She clearly didn’t kill her husband, but Sherlock was confident that if he found out where she had been during that time, he would find the killer. 

His phone buzzed. Mycroft. Sherlock silenced it. It buzzed again. Bloody nuisance. 

Sherlock was in the middle of explaining to Lestrade how the old tennis injury in the wife’s wrist would preclude her from killing her husband and that they needed to find where she went that night because her husband had been beating her for years and the contents of her purse seemed to indicate a long-term lover, but could also be a doting friend when his phone buzzed one final time: a text. Sherlock rolled his eyes but otherwise did not interrupt his stream of deductions as he fished the phone from his pocket. The one word text, however, stopped him mid sentence. 

**Text to Sherlock Holmes from Mycroft Holmes: 2:23 PM**   
John. 

Sherlock stared at his phone suddenly unable to breath. He silently cursed his brother for the lack of information. He felt his heart pounding in his chest. John could still be dead, or he could be fine, or he could be in some vegetative state-  
“Sherlock!” Lestrade cut in through his thoughts “Why does it matter if she has gay friends or not?”   
Sherlock look at Lestrade uncomprehendingly for a moment. All thoughts of the case had fled his mind.   
“What is it?” Lestrade asked, suddenly concerned.   
Sherlock wordlessly showed him the text.   
“Is he alive?” Lestrade asked after a beat.   
Sherlock looked at him blankly for a moment before trying to drag out a response “I. I don’t-” as he was suddenly overcome with the fear that he would call Mycroft and be informed that it was over. That the tiny scrap of hope he’d managed to cling to would be dashed away in seconds and John would truly be gone from his life forever.   
“For God’s sake” Lestrade growled and he seized the phone from Sherlock’s grasp and hit the call button. This spurred Sherlock into action and when he heard the click one ring later that indicated Mycroft had answered the call he snatched the phone from Lestrade and snapped “Is he alive?”   
“Ah, Sherlock.”   
“Is. He. Alive?”   
“Yes.” Sherlock breathed deeply in what felt like the first in months. He let out an overjoyed laugh. Alive.   
“Thank God” he sighed into the phone before “where is he?”   
“Hospital” Mycroft replied brusquely and Sherlock’s breath caught again “I’m sending a car for you now”  
“Is he okay?” Sherlock demanded.   
“He’s been in better shape, but is in no immediate danger. He is severely malnourished and seems to been locked away somewhere and entirely forgotten about. He also has some small but infected burns as well as a broken arm that healed poorly and will have to be re-broken if he wants to use the arm again. He has a number other minor ailments, but those seem to be the most pressing. He should be allowed to come home very soon.”   
“What happened to him?”   
“He refuses to say until you get here. Says he doesn’t want to repeat himself. Gave me quite the turn when we found him, but I will tell you about that later.” Sherlock smiled, closed his eyes and clasped his hands behind his back. John was alive. Better than just alive, John was safe and would be coming home soon. Crime scene forgotten, he strode purposefully towards the road to wait for Mycroft’s car.  
“Wait!” Lestrade shouted and ran after Sherlock. “How’s John?”   
Sherlock stopped abruptly, turned, and, grinning somewhat hysterically, pulled Lestrade into a hug. Lestrade yelped, stiffened, and then relaxed and awkwardly patted Sherlock on the back.  
“He’s alive, Lestrade.” Sherlock said and then, hardly able to believe it, himself “He’s going to be fine.” 

 

•••

Sherlock hesitated outside of the door to John’s hospital room feeling inexplicably nervous. It simply wasn’t logical: this was John, he was okay, there was nothing to be so worried about. These thoughts did nothing to stop the butterflies that flapped frantically in his chest and stomach, nothing to stop the small nagging desire to turn around and go back, to walk away and solve the crime. He pressed ruthlessly down on these thoughts. This was ridiculous. He wanted nothing more than to have John back and here he was: mere feet away. Shouldn’t he feel happy the way he had at the crime scene? He raised his hand slowly and tapped lightly at the door. Panic filled him once more after the first tap, but he was committed now, so he persisted.   
“Come in.” Came a scratchy voice from within the room.   
And there it was. Joy. John. 

John was sitting up in his hospital bed looking worse than Sherlock had ever seen him. He was frighteningly pale and thin, his hair was grey and down to his shoulders, and his beard was even longer. His eyes and cheeks were sunken given him a somewhat hollow-out look. He was on an IV drip and was half covered in bandages. When he smiled at Sherlock, it was more of a weak grimace than a real smile and it showed diseased gums and several missing teeth. He was, nonetheless, the best thing Sherlock had ever seen. 

Mycroft was also sitting in the room. 

Long moments stretched on as Sherlock couldn't bring himself to break the silence. He had an irrational fear niggling in the back of his mind that any second now he was going to wake up and once again have to face an empty flat. John couldn't seem to take his eyes off Sherlock anymore than Sherlock could drag his eyes away from John. 

It was Mycroft who finally broke the silence. "There's another chair by the wall if you'd like to sit." 

John let out a small, wheezing, laugh "You should sit, Sherlock, you look like you've seen a ghost."

Sherlock pulled the chair over to John's bed with a small smile "I rather feel like I have. If this is even an eighth of how you felt when I returned from my.... absence... then I could not be more sorry." 

John laughed again and smiled his exhausted smile "You know I forgave you for that long ago, and even so, this is certainly not the way I would have gone about getting my revenge. Perhaps the Bahamas. Deserted terrorist base in France? Not so much." 

"France?" Mycroft stared at John in disbelief. "We found the last facility in France almost three months ago. It was entirely empty." 

"I must have escaped by that point" John replied "Three months. It's all such a blur that seems both much longer than that and as it it was only a matter of days. How long was I gone?"

"Almost a year" said Mycroft at the exact moment Sherlock said "Eleven months and sixteen days." 

Sherlock looked away looking somewhat embarrassed, and a tense silence ensued. IT was broken by one of Mycroft's indistinguishable assistants quietly entering and placing a tray of tea and biscuits on the small table by John's bed and then exiting quickly, and if Sherlock was not mistaken, with a small bow. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Shall we start at the beginning then, John?"   
John took a large fortifying gulp from his mug and then glared at it like it had offended him.   
"This is just honey water" he complained.   
Mycroft looked stern and unapologetic "You are severely malnourished. It will be a while before your stomach can handle rich foods much less caffeine. John sighed and replaced his mug on the tray. Sherlock briefly considered starting a timer in his head until John inevitably picked it up again. John always required a mug of tea in his hands for difficult conversations and if tea were not available, he would take what he could get.

"Alright then" John said "Would you like me to start with the kidnapping, or when they deserted the base?" 

"Kidnapping, if you please" and Mycroft took out a recorder. John eyed it warily before beginning. 

"They took me just as I was leaving the clinic. Chloroform or something like it. I didn't see them coming"

"If you could be as detailed as possible" Mycroft interrupted and Sherlock shot him a glare, but he seemed unfazed. 

"It's been a long time and I was hazy from the drugs and being kicked around, but I will try my best. I could tell that they were different from the normal thugs that come after me for Sherlock's sake. At best those tend to be proficient. Thee were clearly professional and they had that kind of crazed, manic passion that only extremists seem capable of." He smiled and nodded at Sherlock "and present company when there's a particularly juicy murder, of course" Sherlock scowled at him half-heartedly. John smirked and continued.   
"They were clearly not the type of people you'd ever want to have missiles although I still not sure what they're specific goal was, but I'm glad they couldn't accomplish it." 

Mycroft coughed, and John paused in his narrative.   
"I would like to say, John," Mycroft said sounding more sheepish than Sherlock had ever heard him. "I am truly sorry that I had to make the decision I did. I simply couldn't give in to their demands. Had there been any other way-"   
"Mycroft," John interrupted "it's all fine. I would have done the same. You did not wrong." Mycroft relaxed viably and Sherlock grumbled derogatory things about his brother under his breath. He would not be so forgiving. Mycroft's actions had cost him John for a year. John gave Sherlock an exasperated glare. 

"Luckily for me they didn't have any sort of real cell. I don't think they were used to having prisoners or hostages, so I was put in a small spare room that was probably usually used for people staying at the base. There was a guard by my door but I never spoke to him.   
Not sure how much time passed, but I remember hearing chaos outside my room. That's when you got to them, right? Anyway, it was very loud for awhile and then it was very quite which was frankly much more worrisome because there was always noise just from the people who worked and lived there. It was quite for a few hours, maybe a day, then they hit the switch to blow the place up." 

Sherlock winced at that, and shuddered at how close he had been to losing John all together. 

"Of course, the explosive malfunctioned or else I would have been dead on the spot. The power was out by that point. When I realised no one was coming for me, I broke out of my room. The dynamite had collapsed a wall but the place was habitable." 

"How did you get out of your room?" Mycroft asked, gesturing towards John's broken arm. 

"I broke the door down" John lied "it hurt, but I had to do it and I had to before I lost strength because of starvation, and then it was just a matter of survival. i tried digging my way out a couple of time, but the wall kept collapsing. When the water ran out, I decided to risk the left over explosives." He gestured to the burns on his arms.

"How were you able to survive as long as you did in a deserted building?" Mycroft reached for another biscuit and poured himself another cup of tea.

"It was pretty well stocked up. You must have done a good job taking them out for them to jump ship like they did. There was enough food where I was to last several people at least a month and I'm fairly certain there was a main storage area that was cut off in the explosion. It seemed like a work in progress though, they were getting ready for something. It wasn't just food either but petrol and some candles and for the first month or so I was able to find some toiletries in lockers. After a few months though, I was had to supplement some of my food intake with rats." 

John grinned as both of the Holmes brothers grimaced at that. Then added "they're not half bad if you skin them and roast them." He couldn't hold back a laugh at the resulting matching expressions of horror.

Relishing the sound of John's laughter, Sherlock waited until he had finished before prompting him to continue. "If you escaped almost three months ago, why is it that you only came back now."

"Well, it wasn't an easy journey back. I had been living on candle light for the better part of nine-months and even that had run out by the end. I was tired, injured, starving and, dehydrated. I couldn't open my eyes for the first day I was outside, and after that, it was several days before I could see well enough to navigate. It was loud and consuming as well after the quiet of the base. I'm pretty sure I hallucinated for most of the first day or so.  
You saw where I was, it was the middle of a forrest just at the foot of the alps. I was hopelessly lost for almost a week. I had to survive on berries like a character out of the type of adventure novel I used to read when I was a kid. It's a wonder I didn't poison myself, but I managed.   
When I finally found civilisation, it was this tiny French village where no one spoke a word of English and my French has always been shit. Besides, no one wants to speak to the crazy man especially when he looks like me" This was said with a gesture to the wild hair and beard "I stole some food which I'm not proud of and it landed me a night in a French jail cell, but at least I got fed. While I wasn't offered medical attention is beyond me, but I wasn't, and the rest of my time was mostly spent walking or hitchhiking back to London begging for money or food when I could, and is basically a blur. The fact I managed to get back at all is nothing short of a miracle." 

"Why didn't you call or try to contact me?" Sherlock asked, looking almost hurt at the idea. 

John turned away, flushing lightly "In part, it was because I don't have your number memorised, and I wasn't actually sure how to get into contact with you. To be perfectly honest though, by that point, I'd lost touch with reality a bit, so the idea didn't really occur. I guess I had gotten so used to living on my own, that I forgot that I had people I could turn to." 

A heavy silence hung in the air. It was broken nearly a full minute later when Mycroft cleared his throat and stood.   
"Thank you John. I'm glad that you're back and truly sorry that we did not find you earlier to spare your suffering. I must take my leave now. Do not hesitate to contact me if you need anything. A new phone along without whatever else you require will be delivered to Baker st. by the time you return there. You do plan to return, correct?" 

Sherlock's eyes snapped to John. He hadn't considered the possibility that John might not want to return home after his ordeal. Maybe this would be the way things were. There'd be no reprieve for returning to an empty flat. 

John quickly put his fears to rest.  
"Of course. Where else would I go? Baker st. is my home." 

Sherlock stifled a sigh of relief. 

Then Mycroft was gone and the two of them were left alone. 

There was another heavy pause weighed down by unspoken thoughts. Finally Sherlock spoke "What were you going to do if Mycroft hadn't found you?"

John looked almost startled for a moment, but then he laughed. "You mean Mycroft didn't tell you?" 

"Tell me what?" 

John laughed again "I was going to Baker st., but he has surveillance on the place so some of his minions picked me up thinking I was the last vestige of the group that kidnapped me and I was coming after you for revenge or something. Granted, that's who I thought they were as well. Woke up in some warehouse with your brother getting ready to interrogate me. Remind me never to get him angry at me. It was damn scary n. Nuntil I realised who he was."

Sherlock frowned "Did he hurt you?" 

John shook his head "No, I was sedated for a lot of it, but when he realised who I was it was like he couldn't cater to my whims quickly enough." 

"Really? Mycroft?" 

"It's clear he feels really bad about not finding me earlier." 

"As do I."

"I said it before: I don't blame either of you for what happened." 

"You should."

"But I don't, so deal with it. You both are forgiven whether you want to be or not."

"Perhaps, don't tell Mycroft that and we can milk this for all he's worth."

John glared at him fondly for a moment before they both burst into laughter. It felt good to laugh together again. The dam was broken and they sat and talked for hours about Sherlock's cases and John's experiences. 

When the nurse came to shoo Sherlock away because visiting hours were over and John needed his sleep and you can see him tomorrow and not to worry he'll be home in a few days anyway, Sherlock left without a fuss, because she was right on all fronts.

Sherlock stopped at the door on the way out. "John."   
"Yes?"   
"I, um, I missed you."   
John smiled serenely "I missed you too, Sherlock."  
"See you tomorrow?"   
"See you tomorrow. Now get some sleep, and for God's sake, eat something. It looks like I'm going to have to feed you up again."   
Sherlock smiled "You too John. Goodnight." 

Sherlock took a deep breath and stepped out into the brisk night air. He walked home that night with a spring in his step, a lightness in his chest, and the knowledge that soon, John would finally be coming home.


End file.
